I contain my smile. I’m not clear yet.
By the time I enter the storage yard, sweat trickles down my back. I pull off my suit jacket and drape it over my arm, making my way cautiously toward the guardhouse.
“Excuse me,” I say, gaining the guard’s attention. The man is relaxed in the booth, his feet kicked up as he plays with his phone.
After a few seconds, he says, “Just go on in.”
I do smile now. “Thank you.”
I walk around the gate that the guard couldn’t be bothered to raise, and locate the unit that corresponds to the keys. With a determined breath to steel myself, I push one of the keys into the lock.
I lift the roll door.
It rolls back with a deafening clatter that jars my nerves.
The unit is empty. All except a snow globe in the corner.
Glancing over my shoulder once, I note that I’m still alone, then enter the unit. I pick up the globe and laugh.
“Of fucking course.”
The ferry ride to Alcatraz Island is a short fifteen minutes. I clutch the railing, my nerves a tangle of excitement and fear.
I left my phone behind at my townhouse. The only way for anyone to know of my location is if they’ve been following me. I’ve learned how to sense this; strengthening those dormant hunter skills that lay buried in us all.
No one is concerned about Dr. London Noble anymore. My part is too boring, too cliché, to be of interest. The story is far more exciting if I’m just the victim, giving the stage to the main players—the villains and heroes.
I coordinated an elaborate scheme, but I believe the most impressive bit of magic I performed was in becoming invisible.
I step off the ferry and am guided to the tour hosts, where they section off tourists to visit the different parts of the island.
I select the prison.
A giant red sign reads: Tour Starts Here
And that’s where I start. The tour guide leads us through corridors, pointing out the many cells. A familiar pang of nostalgia grips me, acute in its haunting clutch. I’ve lived within a cell my whole life. In one way or another.
He couldn’t have picked a more perfect location.
By the time the tour is coming to an end, I’m worried I missed the mark by a day, or even hours. No. I didn’t stray from my pattern.
Trepidation slithers around my bones, slowing my steps. I didn’t share every aspect of the trap with Grayson while I wasdesigning it. Some elements—like the aconite—was decided later. We never got the chance to prepare beforehand.
Then a terrible thought: He might not be coming to me, butforme.
A hand slips into mine.
The air seizes in my lungs as I’m pulled to a stop, the rest of the tour walking ahead.
For a few suspended heartbeats, I let the coarse feel of his palm heat my blood, adrenaline pouring into my veins, before I turn to face Grayson.
26
THE END
GRAYSON
What beats a perfect death?
